Red White and Blue
by dudeurfugly
Summary: These three colors can mean so much together and apart. A one-shot reflective piece about medic Eugene Roe during Bastogne and The Breaking Point.


**Disclaimer: I don't own anything from **_**Band of Brothers**_**. I realize that it is based on the lives of men who served in the military and I have the utmost respect for each and every one of them.**

**A/N: The idea just came up while discussing the American flag, so I decided to run with it while the inspiration lasted. Please review, any type of feedback is always appreciated!**

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Red.

It's the cross he bears on his uniform; the weight that settles heavily on his shoulders that he knows will keep him up at night if he survives.

It's the color of pain and torment and agony, plaguing the faces of his comrades; the images he won't be able to shake from his head.

It's helplessness and vulnerability and desperation.

It's the harsh realities of a war that's gone on for far too long, dragging so many lives with it.

It's in the shouts of _Medic!_ and _Oh, God, please help me_ and _how bad is it, Doc?_

It won't come off his hands, no matter how hard he tries to remove it, to forget whose life force it was.

It's the faces bothered and chapped from bitter wind, a sign of hearts still beating, blood still pumping, until—

It's splattered across the snow, the trees, the uniforms of his brothers, and he's trying—trying so hard to keep it in, keep himself together.

It's the color of her lips, of comfort and understanding in the midst of chaos.

White.

It's the snow and the sky that blur together in a vast nothingness as days pass at a crawl.

It's the freezing cold that settles deep into his bones, a cold so violent and unforgiving it won't let him forget what it feels like for as long as he lives.

It's moments of calm which only seem to be fleeting before the thunderstorm of explosions, bullets, and mass hysteria.

It's desolate and relentless and unchanging; a vicious cycle that doesn't break.

It's in the ashen complexions during a race against time; the fluidity of his numbing fingers, wrapping bandages, sprinkling sulfa powder, telling them, _I got ya, it'll be okay_, _it's not as bad as it looks_.

It's the light that goes out in their eyes when he can't save them and the feeling of failure and remorse that follows.

It's being overwhelmed, and the detachment of running on autopilot and simply going through the motions, exhausted in all forms of the word.

It's watching the flakes of snow drifting down from the clouds, swirling in the wind, collecting around him and marveling at duality of harshness and peace that it radiates.

It's the color of her skin, so much like porcelain, and her smile and unwavering kindness.

Blue.

It's on the lips and fingers of the soldiers huddled in foxholes for any shred of warmth, shaking as they clutch their guns and wait for the next attack.

It's the sky back home in Louisiana, where he belongs; the one he tries to hold onto, the one he dreams about in the off chance that he gets to sleep.

It's the same color he tries to avoid when he sees it settling in skin of those who have become casualties.

It's her eyes, and the sparkle in them that gives him hope.

It's loneliness and depression and isolation.

It's grieving for their losses and trying to make sense of it, but not having time to.

It's in every _What I wouldn't give for_ and_ I wish _and _I remember back when_ that he hears around him.

It's her headscarf that finds its way from the fatal wreckage to his pocket, and later, to help out a friend.

It's clutching what's left of that headscarf, and the tears he sheds during the darkness of the night he wishes would just swallow him whole.

It's finally reaching the breaking point.

Red, White, and Blue.

It's thirteen stripes and forty-eight stars.

It's strength and power and unity.

It's every man, woman and child back home.

It's unbridled patriotism that courses through the veins of his comrades, the men he works so hard to save.

It's the symbol that keeps all of their feet moving, even when each step seems impossible to take.

It's bowing his head and closing his eyes and saying a prayer.

It's the memory of her that he'll carry with him, tucked away safely in the corner of his mind where he can call upon it when he needs it most.

It's all the warmth and comfort of home.

It's in _the dawn's early light_ and _thru the perilous fight_ and _bombs bursting in air_ and _the land of the free and the home of the brave_.

It's what they're fighting for.

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**A/N: I've never written anything in this kind of style, but it seemed to fit, so I hope it turned out okay. I knew that using Doc Roe for this idea would work the best, especially during Bastogne. I've only seen the series recently; I hope I got everything right. Please let me know, as this is only my second story for **_**Band of Brothers**_**!**


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